Tunnel Vision
by beeaitch
Summary: Ch2: Des is on the road to recovery after having a window smashed in his face, but Reg & Sam are determined to catch the vandals. However, recovery is never smooth...
1. Looking Through the Fishbowl

**Tunnel Vision**

**By BH**

**Part One: Looking Through the Fishbowl**

_Daylight  
See the dew on a sunflower  
And a rose that is fading  
Roses wither away  
Like the sunflower  
I yearn to turn my face to the dawn  
I am waiting for the day  
_-Memory, _Cats_ (Andrew Lloyd-Webber)

There was little warning. PC Sam Harker was in the middle of putting his plate of chips on the table in the corner of the busy canteen, bantering with Des Taviner who was about to sit down opposite him. Des abruptly broke off the conversation, looking past Sam's shoulder at the window. Sam just had time to glimpse the look of horror on Des' face before Des' hands shot out, seizing Sam by the shoulders and wrenching him forward. Sam lost his footing and fell face-down on the table with a clatter of plates, too surprised to prevent it or cry out, then a long crash of breaking glass reverberated around the canteen. Fiery pain seared through Sam's nose as it bashed the tabletop, he felt the back of his head being pelted with glass fragments and the sharp pain as they lacerated his scalp, felt the table resonate against his cheekbone as something heavy landed to his right with a thunk and another clatter of plates, heard the cries of shock from his colleagues who had already been seated at the table...then the pressure of Des' hands on his shoulders disappeared and an ear-splitting scream of pain ripped through the air, accompanied by the clang of crockery and the scraping of chairs as the other officers were spurred into action.

Cass Rickman, who had been sitting on the opposite end of the table to Des and Sam, had watched the whole thing, completely powerless to prevent it. Des' scream pulled her out of her paralysis and she scrambled out of her chair to assist him. Des had collapsed onto his knees, covering his face with his hands. He was hunched over and his whole body shook with the wails that were being involuntarily torn from his lungs. Cass' feet slid on the broken glass strewn over the linoleum floor as she skidded into a kneeling position beside him in the chaos-filled canteen. She winced as a glass splinter stabbed her knee, quickly pulled it out and brushed all the glass away from where she was kneeling, and then turned her attention to the screaming officer huddled on the floor.

"Des – are you okay?" she asked him frantically as other PCs hurried to join her. "Des?? C'mon, talk to me...Des!"

Cass' insistent voice finally penetrated the tumult of noise around Des and the waves of pain that were washing through his brain, and in response his incoherent howls changed briefly to words.

"My eyes! My eyes!"

Cass turned to Reg Hollis, who was closest, and struggled to make herself heard amidst the pandemonium.

"Help me, Reg – hold him still," she begged, then yelled desperately to the officers who were crowding around her, anxious to help but more of a hindrance, "Shut up – I can't think! Give me room to breathe, all of you!"

Obeying her asserted authority, the others quietened down and shuffled back, giving her more space, but someone else pushed through and started to kneel.

"Is he alright? Is he okay? It was a brick – someone threw a brick – I don't know why -"

Cass looked up. It was Sam, blood streaming from his nose, tomato sauce dribbling down his shirt and soaking in with the bloodstains already there. He was very wobbly on his feet and his face was very pale.

"No, Sam, you're no help here!" she tried to tell him.

Polly Page moved out from the crowd of officers and pulled Sam back. Di Worrell went to assist her.

"She's right, Sam – you'll just be in the way!" they said to him, hastening him towards the doors. "We'll take you to the FME's."

Cass turned back to Des, worried about Sam but knowing that he was reasonably ok. Though Reg was keeping him still, Des was still screaming in agony. Then Cass noticed with mounting panic the trickles of blood that were starting to run through his fingers.

"Someone get the first aid kit – and find one of the sarges!" she shouted out, then gently attempted to prise Des' hands away from his face.

Des wouldn't let her – he flinched away from her and his screams turned to sobs, more rivulets of blood oozing down the backs of his hands.

"Don't make it worse...don't make it worse, God, it hurts, it hurts!"

"Des, I've gotta look!"

"What's going on? Who's screaming?"

Cass heard Sergeant Ackland shouting across the canteen, but she was too concerned about Des to respond. She reached forward again and this time managed to grab Des' wrists and pull them down, away from his face. There was a long howl from Des as the light hit his eyes and he tried to turn away. Cass's mouth opened and her eyes went wide in horror as she saw the extent of his injuries.

"Christ..."

Des' face was already covered with blood – it was flowing from what seemed like hundreds of different sized cuts all over his face. The light reflected off tiny slivers of glass that were embedded in his cheeks, some in the cuts themselves, but it was his eyes that shocked Cass the most. One bloodshot eye had a large glass fragment lodged in it. The other was partly closed, but the white of it was now a dark red. Bloodied tears coursed down his face, creating a network of red runnels down his cheeks. Des wrested his hands from hers and covered his face up again, wailing, trying to block out the light, but that three-second glimpse of his face was burned on the back of Cass' eyelids. She knelt there, momentarily frozen by what she had seen. Reg looked at her in concern.

"Is it –" he started.

Cass shook her head in dismay.

"God, it's bad...really bad," she muttered. "He needs an ambulance –"

"Cass, what's happened?" she heard June Ackland demand.

The protective circle of officers had parted to let her through and she was kneeling beside Des, looking from Reg's worried, confused face to Cass' unnerved own. Cass thrust her shock to the back of her mind, trying to get back into practical mode.

"Broken window, sarge," she explained rapidly. "Des copped the lot, and it's a bloody awful mess. I've gotta radio for an ambulance – the first aid kit's gonna be _useless_."

She started to get up, but June pushed her back down again.

"I'll do it, Cass, you stay with him," she said, already standing up. She turned to the other officers standing around them.

"I want you all out of here right _now_," she ordered. "The fewer people we have in here, the better."

For once, nobody argued. June shut the doors behind them as they left, then attempted to radio for an ambulance.

"I'm sorry, June, the lines are jammed with calls – there's nobody free to raise an ambulance," said CAD Sergeant Gilmore, sounding rather flustered. "Can you use someone's mobile?"

"Received, Craig," June sighed, delving into one of the pockets on her utility belt to find her phone.

Inspector Monroe hurried down the grey, featureless corridor, heading towards the canteen. He'd been given a breathless message by one of the PCs who had been sent out of there, and was now going to see the situation for himself. A loud voice drifted down the corridor towards him.

"Yes – serious facial injuries...FACIAL INJURIES...when will the ambulance get here? I said, WHAT IS THE AMBULANCE ETA...Ok, th – oh..."

Monroe rounded the corner into the canteen corridor and almost bumped into June Ackland, who was looking irritably at her mobile phone display. June turned to face him.

"June, what's been going on?" he asked her. "All I've been told is that Des Taviner's been injured."

"Yes, someone smashed the canteen window, sir," June confirmed. "Des got a _faceful _of glass – it's serious. I've phoned the ambulance – the reception was awful, I had to keep repeating myself, but I think they got all the details. The ambulance will be here in five minutes. Cass and Reg are in there with Des – would you mind taking over, sir, while I wait outside for the ambulance?"

Monroe nodded his assent and June left. Monroe pushed open the canteen doors and entered the room, making his way towards the huddle of figures on the floor. He noticed the broken window and the glass scattered over one table and the floor. His shoes crunched on the fragments of glass as he walked quickly towards the three officers kneeling on the floor.

Des was shivering – he'd gone into shock and was too exhausted by the pain to scream anymore. His keening was reduced to inaudible sobs and gasping. Cass draped her police jacket over his shuddering form to keep him warm. Reg laid a hand on Des' shoulder, to let Des know that he hadn't been deserted. Des did not respond, trapped in a cocoon of pain and suffering, blood running down his arms and dripping onto the floor. Reg and Cass stayed with him, unable to move him or do anything to help for fear of making his injuries worse. They did their best to explain to Monroe what had happened.

"Did anyone look out the window?" Monroe queried after hearing their relation of events.

Cass and Reg exchanged glances and shook their heads.

"We didn't see anyone, sir – we were sitting at Des' table when it all happened, so we went to him," Reg said. "Sam was facing away from the window, so he didn't see - I don't think anyone else did either, it just all happened so quickly...in fact, I think Des must have been the only one to have seen them, however briefly...he would never have been able to pull Sam out of the way, otherwise."

Monroe changed tack – he didn't want either of them blaming themselves for not getting a description of the person who had thrown the brick. It was a difficult situation and the way that both had coped with it was admirable – there was no point in lingering on what they hadn't done.

"Do you know roughly what time it happened?" he asked.

"Eleven o'clock, sir – right at the start of refs," Cass said, grateful that she was able to supply some useful information.

They turned their heads in the direction of the door when they heard it open. Cass breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted the familiar green uniforms of the paramedics as they followed June Ackland into the canteen. The medics spotted Des immediately and hurried over, lugging their red boxes of kit. They shooed Cass and Reg out of the way and started checking Des over, firing questions at all who were present. For Reg and Cass, the next five minutes were a blur – Des' fresh cries of pain as the paramedics tried to assess his injuries, questions about Des' medical history which they couldn't answer, quick-fire exchanges between the paramedics in a medical dialect that they had no understanding of, and finally Des was loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled out of the canteen.

"Someone needs to go in the ambulance and sort the consent forms," one of the paramedics told them.

Cass opened her mouth to volunteer, but June shook her head.

"No, Cass, you've done enough," she said, then looked to Reg.

Reg nodded 'yes' to the unspoken question. He felt it a duty to his best mate to accompany him in the ambulance, and June understood that, as did Cass, who smiled at him in reassurance.

"I'll ring through when I have news," he promised, then followed the stretcher out.

June, Cass and Inspector Monroe surveyed the deserted canteen with its pushed back chairs, crockery items lying on the floor where they'd fallen, cold food on abandoned plates, and the bewildered looking dinner-ladies standing behind the serving counter, quietly discussing with one another what they had witnessed. Cass looked to the doors that had just banged shut. Monroe saw the direction she was looking in.

"Go, Cass," he said gently. "We'll finish here."

Cass gave him a grateful smile.

"Thanks, sir," she said, then hurried out, aiming to see the ambulance off and glean as much information as she could from the paramedics about Des' condition.

Monroe turned to June.

"We'll have to sort out some sort of briefing to stop the rumours doing the rounds."

June nodded. They both looked towards the shattered window.

"I'll arrange for someone to tape that up and clear the glass," June offered. "And Des' next-of-kin will have to be told."

"Yes, do that – thanks, June. I'd best go and inform the Superintendent," Monroe said, turning to leave. "Keep me posted on news from the hospital."

"Yes, sir," June promised, then remembered something else and called after him, "Oh, sir?"

Monroe twisted to face June again.

"Yes?" he queried.

June spread her arm out to indicate all the lonely plates on the canteen tables. Monroe frowned, thinking, then sighed.

"Let everyone back in once the glass has been cleaned up – they can get another meal, I'll arrange for the cost to be covered."

June nodded, then Monroe left by the doors that Des had been wheeled through just five minutes before. June spoke to the dinner-ladies for a few minutes – none of them had seen anyone around the side of the canteen but they were happy to cook replacement meals – then she took one final look at the empty canteen, closing her eyes for a brief moment when she saw the bloody puddles and red-splashed glass fragments scattered around where Des had been kneeling. She shook her head at the pointless destruction, wondering how to break the news to Des' family, then exited the canteen, locking the doors behind her.

The clamour of the telephone disturbed the silent flat. The slumbering form in the bedroom stirred, groaning as the insistent jangling roused her from her sleep. She stuck a hand out from under the bedcovers and fumbled for the lamp switch, turning over so she could see the clock on her bedside table. It was 4:50am – obviously an emergency or an overseas caller. She got out of bed and trudged out of the room, stumbling half-consciously along the carpeted hallway to where the phone was hanging on the wall. She picked up the receiver and mumbled a half-awake greeting.

"'Lo?"

"Hello. I'm sorry to be calling you this early – I'm not totally sure of the Papa New Guinea time differences. Are you Fiona Taviner?"

"Urm...yeah..." she replied, mentally trying to work out which country the caller was phoning from.

"Sister of Desmond Taviner?"

"Yeah," Fiona said, snapping awake with the realisation that nobody would be calling at this time of the morning with good news. "What's this about – are you from his work?"

"Yes, I'm June Ackland – the Duty Sergeant at Sun Hill Police Station."

Fiona paused, taking this in, a gut feeling twisting her stomach.

"What's happened?" she asked slowly.

"There was...an incident...at the station today – Des was taken away in an ambulance about ten minutes ago. I'm sorry - he's got serious eye and facial injuries with severe blood loss – you were listed as his next-of-kin."

Fiona tried to sort everything out in her mind, then leaned heavily against the wall.

"Oh my God...Have you...do you... what happened?"

"Someone threw a brick through one of the windows in the canteen. Des knocked another officer out of the way and the glass hit him instead."

"Oh..."

Fiona had run out of words.

"Is there anyone else that Des is close to who ought to be told?" the voice on the other end gently inquired.

"There's just me...Mam and Dad passed away when we were kids. We've an Uncle in Birkenhead – he looked after us...but he wouldn't...he wouldn't care...No, there's just me."

"Do you talk to Des often?"

"He phones me once every fortnight or so – asks me how I'm doing, swapping stories, things li...things like that..." Fiona broke off, breathing slowly, trying to control her tears.

"I'm sorry to have to phone you about something like this," June said. "You're obviously close to him – "

"He looked out for me after Mam and Dad died – our Uncle never wanted us, but he had to look after us if he wanted the inheritance in Dad's will. We ended up in the lowest-costing school with clothes no better than rags – Des stood up against the bullies, fought them so they'd leave us alone...oh, God, I want to see him!" Fiona burst out tearfully. "I want to be there – he's my big brother, I should be there - but I've no money to fly over, and there's my daughter..."

"Do you want me to phone you when I have news from the hospital?"

"Please...thankyou, that would really put my mind at rest. I hope he's ok – I hope it'll be ok..."

"I hope so too. I'll let you know as soon as I can, Fiona."

"Thankyou...thankyou...bye..."

"Bye."

June terminated the call, then sat back in her chair, regarding the Yellow Pages directory sitting on the desk. Then she sighed, leaned forward and opened it, flicking through the pages to find an emergency window repair service.

The pain was sending Des out of his mind. He would've done anything – jumped off a cliff, shot himself, anything to get rid of the stabbing, jabbing, intense pain that was flooding his senses. Sounds distorted around him: loud talking, radio jabber, someone saying his name, asking if he could hear it – he couldn't comprehend what to do about it, as he was too busy panicking about everything else. It hurt to see – the light seared his eyes, but attempts to shut them led to even more pain, and there were funny blobs obscuring his vision, floating in front of things like a swarm of flies. All the while there was the fiery burning, like someone skewering pokers into every part of his face, and the pain that came with his black vision was so bad it was as if there were two stake knives buried deep in his eyes. He'd never experienced hurt anything like it before. His thinking had been reduced to a series of disjointed emotions: fear, hurt, panic, all clamouring to be dealt with first – surfacing, then being swamped by another feeling, and another, before returning in a wave even stronger than before. He was being moved, jolted – more pain. He felt the fresh air on his stinging, scored face. He was aware that he was lying down, but now he was moving...clanking wheels, some sort of trolley, going fast. Double-doors creaked open and whooshed shut, then he was inside again. Disembodied voices conversed above him, meaningless, incomprehensible chatter...God, the pain!

"This is Des Taviner, he has serious eye and facial injuries from broken glass, corneal lacerations, prolapsed iris in the right eye and at least one visible intra-ocular foreign body. Severe bloodloss – transfusion needed for sure – vitreous haemorrhage in both eyes, corneal graft needed in right eye at very least. He's had three milligrams of morphine and needs a full eye exam. There's still glass embedded in his face."

"We've got the donor corneas, the porter's at the blood bank now – theatre's waiting for him, take him straight through."

He couldn't understand what they were saying. He felt himself being moved again...bang of doors, needle in his arm, then blissful, pain-free oblivion.

Superintendent Tom Chandler waited till Inspector Monroe had left before leaning back in his office chair and allowing a smug smirk to spread across his face. It was a terrible shame that such circumstances had arisen – after all, Des Taviner was a good officer, though not with the best of attitudes – but now that it had occurred, Chandler had no intention of passing up on the opportunity to manipulate the incident to his advantage. Des had something on him, and that made Des dangerous to the Superintendent's fast-advancing career. Though it had been years ago in their Hendon days, when they had been uneasy colleagues partnered against their will on occasional training exercises, it would only take one name dropped in the wrong place to start a rumour – and in the competitive environment of the Met fast-track, where the slightest anomaly in an officer's record was viciously pounced upon at promotion review boards, rumours were taken very seriously indeed. Des knew about Chandler's womanising ways, and was an obstacle which needed to be cleared. Here, the opportunity for Chandler to do so had arisen without any machinations or string-pulling on his part. Chandler was pleased about that, and reached for the telephone with a smile on his face.

June dug in the filing drawer of her desk and extracted the paperwork that she had been putting off, but her mind wasn't on H-75s. She was still waiting anxiously for news from St Hugh's. Then a thought occurred to her – cameras! She'd forgotten in the rush. Cameras. The security cameras on the east wall of the station where the canteen was situated would have picked up anyone standing in front of the windows, and therefore the window-breaker would be on tape. She picked up the phone and dialled through to CAD. Sergeant Gilmore answered the phone. He appeared to be dealing with another call at the same time.

"...just a minute, please, madam. June?" he said. "I've been meaning to phone for the past twenty minutes, but there's too many calls coming through – proper ones this time. I'll get back to you in a sec..."

June could hear him putting the phone down on the table with the call still connected. She waited, and a few minutes later he picked up the phone again.

"Sorry about that," he apologised.

"Busy?" June enquired.

"Understatement – we've been snowed under with calls of every sort all morning: lost ride-on lawnmowers, rampant racehorses – and those weren't even the hoaxes! What happened in the canteen? Everyone's too busy to talk here at the moment, but Jim Carver told me as he came in that Des Taviner had a window smashed in his face!"

"He has," June told him. "I wasn't in the canteen at the time, but I've heard the story from Cass and Reg. Sam Harker has minor injuries but he should be fine – Des pushed him out of the way and caught the broken window instead. Des is in a terrible mess – glass embedded in his face and eyes. The ambulance left about ten minutes ago."

Craig Gilmore was silent – he couldn't think of what to say.

"Ouch..." he said finally. "I'm sorry we couldn't raise the ambulance for you. Have you heard from the hospital yet?" he added.

"I'm still waiting, but it occurred to me that something might have been picked up by the security cameras..."

Craig paused, thinking.

"Right, I'll check the cameras for you now while there aren't any calls waiting to be dealt with," he offered. "I'll hang up so the hospital can get through. If I find anything on the east cameras, I'll ring you...oh – a call's just come through, I've got to go. I'll let you know, June."

"It happened at about eleven, so check around that. Thanks, Craig."

"Anything to help."

The dial tone buzzed in her ear. June put the phone down and tried to concentrate on the forms, but in reality she was listening out for the phone.

Sam Harker stood with the other officers in the parade room, nosebleed mopped up, face cleaned of blood, shirt changed, listening miserably to Monroe's emergency briefing.

"...We haven't heard from the hospital as of yet, but as soon as we do we'll put an announcement out over CAD," Monroe continued. "These vandals need to be caught, but I don't want you all out there arresting half of Canley's youth population because one of them _might_ be the person who broke the canteen window."

There was a murmur of rebellion from the assembled officers.

"But one of them _might_ have done it, sir!" Nick Klein protested. "We don't have to necessarily _arrest_ people, but we could just _talk_ to them, like."

Monroe raised an eyebrow.

"_Talk_ is the unofficial version of _arrest_," he said dryly._ "_You all know how difficult it is to catch people like this – it could be any one of a hundred different people, form or no form. I'm not saying don't try, I'm just warning you not to go storming over the estates arresting every young lad you see – that doesn't make progress, only harassment complaints and I _don't_ want to receive any. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," the officers said in a mumbled but reluctant unison.

After what seemed like an eternity, June had finally managed to focus all her concentration on the H-75's that she had been meaning to fill out for the past week. As a result, she was unprepared for the sharp ring of the phone. She jumped, realised what the noise was and seized the phone.

"Hello?" she queried, hoping it was the hospital.

"Hello, sarge...it's Reg," said the voice on the other end.

Reg sounded very distressed. June's stomach flopped. She hoped that it wasn't bad news.

"Just ringing to say..." Reg continued. "Um...to say that they're operating on Des now..."

June gave a mental sigh of relief that it wasn't bad news, then looked at the clock on the wall. Had it really only been ten minutes since she had started working on the forms? She turned her mind back to the phone call.

"Yes...how is he?" she asked.

"They won't tell me anything – they just rushed him into the operating theatre and told me I may as well go back to the station because they'd no idea how long they'd be...is it alright if I stay, sarge?"

June smiled sadly. She had known that Reg would offer, and had asked Inspector Monroe if it would be okay for Reg to stay at the hospital. Monroe had said no – he was sorry, but they were short enough on officers as it was, so Reg regrettably would have to return to the beat. June hated to report this, but there was nothing she could do.

"I'm very sorry, Reg – I asked Inspector Monroe and he said that it wouldn't be possible. The hospital will ring through when they have any news, and I promise I'll pass it on straight away. I'll ask the Area Car to stop by St. Hugh's and pick you up."

"Yes, sarge," Reg said miserably.

June's heart went out to him, but there wasn't anything she could do about the order.

Forty minutes later, the phone on June's desk rang again. This time she was pretty certain who it would be.

"Hello, Duty Sergeant speaking?"

"Hi, I'm Mara Keeley, St. Hugh's hospital. I'm just ringing to let you know that PC Taviner is in theatre at the moment."

"Thankyou..." June said, then started asking anxious questions: "What's his condition? And what's being done?"

June wrote down the last few details, thanked the nurse on the other end of the phone and hung up. She then proceeded to read the torrent of information she had scribbled down. In hospital jargon it didn't sound very good, but Nurse Keeley had assured her that corneal transplants were very straightforward and had a high success rate. She phoned Des' sister again and passed on the news, assuring the worried woman that she would phone again when she had more information. The nurse hadn't really bothered to explain much of it, but June decided to pass on what she could to the relief.

She rose from the desk, abandoning the barely started forms, and hurried to the CAD room with the sheet of paper she had written everything on. Sergeant Gilmore heard June enter the room. He looked up and saw June's sheet of paper. He knew what she wanted, so he took off his headphones and handed them to her. June reached across him and pressed the transmit button. The CAD room went quiet as they waited to hear what she had to say.

"All units from Sierra Oscar, I've just heard from the hospital. Des is in theatre – they're not sure how long it will take, but they're going to let us know how the operation went when it's done. He's been given general anaesthetic and a blood transfusion - they're keeping him in overnight for observation, over."

She was immediately hit by a barrage of inquiries.

"How is he, sarge?"

"Any other details?"

"What's being done?"

"Is it bad, sarge?"

"When can we visit?"

"I don't know how he is," June said in response. "They're going to let us know. I don't know when we'll be able to visit, either. He's having a cornea transplant on both eyes, they're trying to get all the glass out of his face...he's had a prolapsed iris, which they said they've fixed, and he's got a foreign body in the right eye, over."

There was silence from the officers out on the beat. June could tell they were digesting the information. She'd told them all she could understand – she didn't want to worry them unnecessarily, and she wanted to find out what a vitrectomy was before she told them any more details.

"Received, sarge," was the eventual mass reply.

June gave the headphones back to the Sergeant, but he didn't put them back on again. He stood and nodded in the direction of the door. June knew what he wanted to talk about and so left the room. He followed. Out in the corridor Craig looked around to make sure that there were no eavesdroppers, then started talking in a low voice.

"I was going to go to your office to tell you this," he said. "I couldn't ring you because everyone in the room would've been listening, and I don't want them to take this and spread it around the station – the fewer people who know about this, the better. The relief might get the wrong idea and decide to launch a man-hunt or something."

June was puzzled. Craig was a cautious person, but he appeared to be taking things to the extreme.

"You've looked at the security tapes?" she inquired.

"Y...es..."

"There isn't anything on them?" she asked, disappointed.

"Well, there is...I took the tape out and took it to the briefing room to look at. I can't believe that nobody noticed it on the monitor. Monitor Seven gives the view from cameras Four, Five and Six along the east wall – the view changes every thirty seconds. Mind you, it was very busy at the time. It still is, or I'm sure someone would've noticed it before I switched it off just now."

"Craig, just tell me who you saw on the tape."

"That's just it – there wasn't anyone! I'll tell you the view from camera Four, which is the only one that covers the ground in front of the east wall of the canteen. Bearing in mind that we've only got static cameras: at the side of the canteen there's a hedge that separates the station from the bus link between Kerrigan Street and Barnaby Road, then there's a clear area in front of the hedge. Cameras Five and Six can see the same thing as camera Four, but from a different angle – camera Six sees it from the opposite end of the wall and camera Five sees it straight on. Cameras Five and Six work fine. Camera Four had the view I described at about ten fifty-nine pm. The view changed to camera Five, and the next time camera Four's view came up on the monitor it was nothing but interference. I thought the monitor had malfunctioned, but I rewound the tape and it was the same second time around."

June took this in, not quite believing it.

"Someone _broke_ the camera?" she asked slowly.

Craig nodded.

"There's no view of the ground in front of the canteen window – the broken one – from any of the other cameras. I couldn't pick anything up on them. _And_...I went outside to check all the cameras – someone's had a go at Camera Four with a _paintball gun_..."

June stared at him, too shocked to reply. Craig confirmed her realisation.

"This broken window wasn't just a random piece of vandalism. It was planned."

_To be continued..._


	2. On the Lookout

**Tunnel Vision**

**Part Two: On the Lookout**

_If you are near to the dark_

_I will tell you 'bout the sun_

_You are here, no escape_

_From my visions of the world_

_You will cry, all alone_

_But it does not mean a thing to me..._

Aura, (_.hackSIGN_)

Reg had been paired with Sam for the duration of the shift. Sergeant Boyden – at June's request – had been at the duty roster with a red pen following the accident, and had changed everyone's assignments to cover Des' absence. Both walked the beat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Sam was reflecting on the massive bollocking that they'd both been given by Sergeant Boyden. Instead of going out on the beat, Sam and Reg had by mutual agreement decided to remain inside the station to talk to everyone they could find, in order to find out if the brick-thrower had been sighted near the canteen.

Sam hadn't previously thought of Reg as the sort of person to break rules, but when a message had come through on Reg's PR requesting their whereabouts, Reg had responded by making up a false location. Then when they were ordered to attend a burglary on Loftus Street, he had accepted the call, borrowed Sam's mobile phone and had used it to ask Cass Rickman – on the neighbouring beat to the one they were supposed to be patrolling – to take the call instead. Sam had been shocked by Reg's behaviour, but had not said anything. Officers covered for their mates and looked out for them, and Sam knew that Reg and Des were close friends, but surely Reg would never break the rules to such an extent? Yet he had, and when Sergeant Boyden had caught them out on his way to the canteen for lunch – and had proceeded to give them the telling-off of the century – Reg had argued that nobody else was bothering to find the people responsible. Boyden had been so astonished by normally-amiable Reg's retort that he had let them go with no further punishment, apart from the parting warning:

"I know you're both friendly with Des, but the sergeants are looking into this, and you two aren't. You're going out on the beat where you belong, and if I find either of you around 'ere again outside of refs, I'll 'ave you!"

However, this hadn't stopped Reg from talking to two boys riding their bikes outside the station as he and Sam were walking out, though the boys hadn't seen anything untoward except coppers. Nor had it prevented Sam from asking a woman waiting at the number 39 bus stop opposite the station if she had seen anything – only to realise, much to his embarrassment, that the woman had a guide dog.

Still, this did not dissuade the pair. Sam felt that he owed it to Des to find the person responsible. If Des hadn't pulled him out of the way, it would have been him lying on the operating table...or on a slab. He couldn't repair Des' torn face, but he could catch the person who was responsible for the broken window.

Reg knew that Des would want the brick-thrower caught. He wanted the brick-thrower caught. Such acts of destruction disgusted him – so pointless, and so dangerous. Des just hated that sort of thing full stop. The sooner the person who had smashed the window was caught, the better it would be. No one who hurt a copper deserved to get away with it, and the fact that it was his best mate who had been hurt made Reg even more determined to see that justice was done – no matter what he had to do to ensure this.

They knocked on the doors of the houses opposite the station, but nobody answered them, even when they called through the letterbox. Neither of them spoke of giving up the search. They were both certain that they could catch the person responsible, and to give up would be like giving up on the PC lying on the operating table as they walked.

June finally received a call from the hospital at about 1pm. Sam and Reg both breathed a sigh of relief when June put an announcement out over CAD telling everyone that Des was out of theatre and that the operation had been a success. Des was still asleep, but would be fine for visiting the next day. The pair were the first to ask to visit, and June did not refuse them.

"I'm keeping an eye on those two," Matt Boyden told her later when she mentioned it to him in the canteen. "I caught 'em in the nick asking the FME if she'd seen anyone 'anging around outside, yet Reg'd been giving radio reports to CAD saying they were attending a burglary on Loftus Street!"

"What?" June asked incredulously. "Reg giving false radio reports? No...he wouldn't do that!"

"Well, we can't blame Des this time. I think Sam put 'im up to it. Sam's blaming 'imself for this a bit, and I think it's rubbed off on Reg. Reg was even arguing with me when I was telling 'em off!"

"Must be. It couldn't be anything else. Reg just wouldn't do that sort of thing on his own. I could have a talk with them next time I see them."

"Would you? I did tell the pair of 'em that we were looking into it and not to go off investigating it themselves, but I think my warning went in one ear and out the other with both of 'em."

"All right. I can hardly blame them, though."

"I know, but 'ave a talk with 'em anyway, yeah? They'll listen to you."

"Really?" June said wryly, then left him to his tea.

On her way out of the canteen she turned at the doors and regarded the broken canteen window, now covered with brown cardboard. Its presence gave the whole canteen an air of decrepit decay. She sighed, thinking of the PC lying in the recovery ward of St. Hugh's, then left the canteen.

Des had a splitting headache. In fact, he wished that someone would just chop his head off and be done with it, as it was where all the pain was. His eyes, his head, his face, they all hurt. It was an effort to string thoughts together – his head felt like cottonwool – but he managed to work out that he was lying in a bed with his eyes shut. He didn't feel able to open his eyes at the moment; it was if they had been weighted shut. They hurt too much, anyway. It wasn't severe pain like the horrific knife-digging that he'd experienced before – now a dim but scary memory – it was just a scratchy, itchy pain that he really wanted to get rid of, but it was too much of an effort to lift up his arms to rub his eyes. Every part of him seemed seized by lethargy, and it took a massive effort just to stay awake. He didn't know how much time had passed – a lot of things were very hazy. He remembered the pain. Oh yes, he remembered the pain. He just wasn't sure why he'd had it in the first place. Something had been broken, Des was aware of that, but he didn't know _what_. He wasn't exactly certain where he was, either. It felt like the morning. But it couldn't be the morning – the morning had already gone...unless it was the next day. What had happened in between? Had he fallen asleep? He couldn't have done, the sergeants would've gone mad. Something had happened. What?

He heard a creaking a short distance away, then a clatter. Something went _phwoosh_ a few seconds later. He'd heard that sound so many times, but he couldn't place it. His brain wouldn't work properly. Des was half tempted to go back to sleep, he certainly felt like it, but he wanted to view his surroundings and work out where he was. However, to do that he had to open his eyes, and he didn't feel that he had the energy to carry out such a simple feat. He lay still for a short while longer, then decided that using up the little energy he had was a better alternative to lying in darkness doing nothing. He opened his eyes.

The scratchy pain intensified as he moved his eyelids, then subsided. Nothing changed. The darkness was still there. He started to panic. He was blind, he couldn't see...then he became aware of the sensation that something touched his face around his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Finally his half-conscious brain interpreted the information, allowing him to come to the conclusion that there was something over his eyes. So he wasn't blind after all. He presumed it was some sort of bandage. He slowly reached up and brushed his fingers over it, confirming his assumption, but a slight pain in his arm made him pause the movement. Something was wrapped around his arm over the wrist. He moved his other hand over and touched the wrapping, feeling the coarse material – that was a bandage as well. The tip of his index finger collided with something raised, causing another pain in his arm. He explored the surface of it gently until he encountered what felt like a thin, smooth string attached to it, running away from his wrist. Then he suddenly realised what it was – he was hooked up to a drip. So he was in a hospital?

The clattering invaded his hearing again, louder now, interrupting his train of thought. It appeared to be approaching from his left...or maybe the right – it was tricky to place the direction sounds were coming from because of the echoes in what was obviously a quiet room with a lot of space. He heard the sound of footsteps on hard ground, previously masked by the racket of the clattering. Someone was approaching him. The clattering stopped, but the footsteps continued. There was the clink and swish of what sounded like a shower curtain. There was a short pause, then someone spoke.

"Des? I s'pose you're a Des, nobody ever likes being a full name nowadays. Are you awake?"

It got through to Des' muzzy head that the voice was a bright, chirpy Scouse one. The tone of the voice indicated that the speaker was female. He tried to respond. It took a lot of effort, but he managed an incoherent 'yzzzzt'.

"Oh well, you're vaguely alive, that'll do me. Bit groggy?"

Des tried to muster up a more concentrated attempt at speech.

"Kinda..."

"Oh!" the voice exclaimed. "You're from Liverpool like I am! You've had a general, it's hardly surprising you're a bit zonked."

"Where'm'I...'m'I in hosp'tal?"

"Yep – Bed Z-ninety-two, a cubicle, Opthalmic ward three, G corridor, Allendale Wing, Saint Hugh's Hospital, Canley, London, Britain, the United Kingdom, the World, the Solar System, the Galaxy, the Universe. Enough detail?" the Scouser laughed, slightly breathless after divulging this torrent of information.

"T'much, re'ly," Des mumbled.

Suddenly he remembered what the phwoosh sound was – the sound of hospital double doors opening and closing. He'd heard it so many times when he'd been at St. Hugh's on police business. It was different actually being the one in the bed. So he'd been injured in some way, then – something to do with whatever it was that had been broken. The nagging question at the back of his mind started nagging again, interrupting his thoughts and reminding him that it needed to be answered.

"Why can't I see?" he asked.

"You've got a bandage over your eyes. You've had a keratoplasty/vitrectomy, according to your chart, so it's hardly surprising. It's to stop you rubbing at your eyes, 'cause from what I've heard from other post vitrectomy patients, it itches like _hell_."

"Oh, right..." Des said uncertainly.

He understood very little of the jargon the nurse had used, but in stubborn fashion he refused to admit it. However, the nurse picked up on this and attempted to explain further.

"It's an eye operation," she said. "Drains out the vitreous humour from your eye through the sclera. You've had other stuff done as well – but I'm not really allowed to explain it all; I'm only a lowly junior nurse. It's the consultants that are s'posed to tell you. I'm just the trolley-jockey."

The nurse descended into a very spot-on impression of Manuel the waiter from the comedy Fawlty Towers.

"Ah know naaaaszing!"

Des couldn't help but smile at this, in spite of his confusion over the nurse's earlier use of medical jargon, but he winced as his face started hurting. The voice suddenly became contrite.

"Sorry, shouldn't've made you smile, it's pulling at the stitches on your face. Not advisable for you to talk a lot either, or do any shouting. Good thing really, I already have to put up with Brian Moany-Guts in the bed next to yours and Tanya Screech-Owl on the other side of the ward. At least you've got some sort of sense of humour. Sorry, I'm jabbering again," she scolded herself. "If I annoy you, tell me to shuddup," she added cheerfully. "I get like that with the non-sighted patients because they like people talking to them, so I do it to everybody."

"S'ok. If you're pissing me off, I'll letcha know. You know a lot for a 'lowly junior nurse'."

The nurse chuckled.

"I know nothing, Desmond Thaddeus Taviner," she said mysteriously, then burst out laughing.

Des knew that she'd caught sight of his look of horror. How did she know?

"It's on your chart!" she told him.

"Oh, no," he groaned. "They didn't...tell me they didn't..."

"I could tell you that, but it'd be fibbing. It's hospital regulations. There might be another Des Taviner admitted into hospital one day – they don't want to get the patient notes mixed up, so the middle name goes on there as well. Thaddeus isn't that bad. Better than Emmeline, which is mine. Antonia Emmeline Carr sounds like one of those evil Tiny Tears dolls, whereas Desmond Thaddeus Taviner sounds like a great philosopher!"

"I'm no good at philosophy. I'll just have to hope anyone visiting doesn't look at it! Antonia Emmeline's alright, I've heard worse names."

"I prefer being a 'Toni' – sounds more wild, fits me better!" she said, then added as an afterthought, "There can't be a worse name than mine, surely – "

"Reginald Percival Hollis."

There was a short, disbelieving silence.

"Reginald Percival – you're kidding me!" the Scouser said in disbelief, then saw that he wasn't. "Oh dear - poor lad must've been well teased at school!"

"He's proud of his name. Writes it on everything he can!"

"Oh, well, I s'pose that's different."

"Like I said, yours isn't that bad."

"Thanks, but flattery gets you nowhere when it comes to hospital food!"

"Eh?"

"'Tis brekkie-time! I'm trolley-jockey, remember? Just as well it's all cold stuff, the amount of time I spend yakking to patients. Then again, nobody else in here right now is awake at nine am, I have to wake them up myself or they miss breakfast and they moan. So, whaddaya want?"

A thought occurred to Des with regard to food.

"I can't see. How can I eat?"

"Well, the doctor's doing the post-op rounds once she's gotten all her junk together. She'll take your bandage off. You've had keratoplasty, which isn't a major op, and the vitrectomy doesn't affect your vision, so there's no reason why the bandage can't stay off, as far as I know, but don't quote me on it! I assume they will leave it off, though, especially as they'll want to check to make sure you're accepting the corneas."

"Accepting? Eh?"

"That's keratoplasty. The doctor can explain it more than I can, I just look up the op names in my medical dictionary when I do the trolley rounds or get the patient to explain it to me if they've been in a while. I'm just nosy about those sorts of things. Anyway, your chart says that foodwise you're allowed anything with no vinegar or lemon in it, so that means you can have anything on the trolley. I won't be back with it till lunchtime, so if you want anything, choose it now and eat it when the doc takes your bandage off."

Des wasn't feeling very hungry, but he knew that he ought to have something.

"Watcha got?" he asked.

The voice suddenly changed to a broad Cockney accent similar to those of the stall traders of Canley Market.

"Laaavely muesli, top quality, straaaaight from the kitchen; cornflakes, onnne hundred percent Kellogg's; best bread'n'marmalade this sidea Canley, fulla goodness, and ya won't find Cheerios better'n ours! Plus, any cereal ya choose has freeee milk wivvit. In fact, alla it's free! What better bargain c'n ya find? Ya also gedda free drinka ya choice – water, orange juice or apple juice, or tea/coffee, but they both taste the same," she lapsed back into a normal Scouse voice. "The coffee is lethal, you've been warned! Interested?"

Des laughed, wincing as his stitches pulled.

"You know the stuff sold on the market," he said. "No amount of talking can hide the fact that it's horrible."

"Dammit! Knew it wouldn't work!" the voice said in amusement. "Oh well, you'll just have to lump it like everyone else. The doctor's just come in, Brian Moany-Guts in the next bed is waking up so he'll want his brekkie. Choose something!"

Des thought for a few seconds.

"Cornflakes'n'coffee," he said.

"Magic word?" the nurse asked.

"Please, or yuk?"

Scouse laughter.

"I had the word beginning with 'P' in mind, but I'll accept either, seeing as 'yuk' is the best word to describe the coffee! You're mad to have the coffee, it's better off for cleaning pipes rather than your insides, but if you feel like setting your recovery back four weeks then that's just great. Are you a lefty or a righty?"

"Politics is a waste of time," Des said with a wry grin – he was enjoying the banter and never missed the opportunity to wind somebody up.

"Right joker you are!" Toni commented with amusement. "I meant: what hand do you use for writing?"

"Left."

"Okiedokes!"

There was a clatter of crockery, the sound of something being poured. Des could smell the coffee – it was very strong, but he hoped it would clear out the last of the anaesthetic from his body. More sounds – crunchy cornflake noises, then a tinkling noise – probably the cornflakes hitting the cereal bowl – followed by the slosh of milk. He heard the crockery being placed on something close to him, then a quiet creak. The smell of coffee became stronger – it was closer to him.

"Des," Toni said. "Everything's on the table in front of you, be careful when moving your arms up because they're under the table itself, you don't want to lose the lot. Bowl's in the middle, spoon on the left just next to the bowl, coffee at about eleven o'clock with the handle sticking out to the left – it's only three-quarters full so you don't spill it – and there's a few paper-towels on the right side of the bowl if you have any accidents – "

A loud Essex voice from Des' right interrupted her.

"Oi, Toni, love, there's other poor starving blokes who need a bit of TLC, y'know!"

"Moan, moan, moan, that's all you do, Brian!" Toni teased, increasing her voice volume to reach the man in the cubicle next to Des'. "Patience – I'm on my way!"

"Starving blokes don't have 'patience' in their vocabulary, love!" Brian shot back.

Toni snorted, ignored the comment and addressed Des again.

"The doc is on the other side of the ward and she's working her way round, so you're last I'm afraid, Des. Be nice to her – she's putting in your eye-drops! Try and drink your coffee before it goes cold. Keep your head up as well, you're on floater watch. See ya at one!"

The trolley clattered away and the curtain rings clinked. Des carefully sat upright, resting against the two pillows that had been stacked up behind his head. He wondered how big the ward was, and how long the doctor would take to get around to him. He wished that Toni had spoken to him for a bit longer, but she was obviously busy. In the meantime, he had food to eat. He wasn't particularly enthusiastic about eating – in fact he felt slightly ill – but he had asked for what was in front of him, and he felt obliged to eat it. He slowly moved his left hand up until it came into contact with the underside of the table, then moved it back till he reached the side. He found the top surface of the table and got the bearings of everything. It was exactly as had been described to him.

Trying to find his mouth with a spoon he couldn't see was a tricky business. It frustrated him – it was like learning to eat all over again. It was slow, and keeping the spoon at the right angle to stop everything falling off was what seemed like an impossible feat. Several times Des tried to eat the contents of an empty spoon, and each time he had to stop, locate the lost spoonful and mop it up. In the end he gave up, because although the cornflakes were nice enough, they were just too hard to eat, and his nausea had increased. The coffee also was nice and strong, though very thick, but again the nausea made it too much to manage. Toni's trolley was now a distant clatter, and he heard the curtain rings move. Someone walked up to his bedside.

"Hello, Des," the person said. "I'm Doctor Harrow."

She had a Brummie accent, definitely.

"Did you enjoy your breakfast?" she asked.

"Only ate a coupla mouthfuls. It was too hard to eat, and I felt sick," Des said. "I still do," he added as an afterthought. "Guess it's the anaesthetic."

"The nausea will pass – it's just the after-effects of the anaesthetic," the doctor assured him. "There's a sick-bowl on your bedside table to your right if you need it, but I doubt that will be the case – it's only mild and doesn't last long. At least you ate a bit of your breakfast – patients under general anaesthetic aren't usually hungry when they wake up, but I saw Antonia working her usual persuasive tactics and impressions. We're very lucky to have her on the ward – our resident ray of sunshine. Now then, you'll want the bandage off?"

"Yeah, if that's allowed."

"I'd say so. I'll have to tell you a few things to keep a lookout for when I take off the bandage, though."

"Ok."

"Right, if you have anything obscuring your vision in any way – any black shadows or things floating in your line of sight or periphery vision, tell me straightaway. And if you see any flashes of light in odd places, I want to know. I'm going to take your bandage off now. Things will be very blurry at first, but your sight will improve as the day goes on. We're keeping you in for the rest of today to monitor you for any signs of infection, but you can go home this evening if all is well. We're just making sure all the glass is out. You may feel a bit of discomfort while I'm doing this – nothing really bad, it's just the stitches in your eyes from the vitrectomies, but if the ones in the front of your eyes hurt, tell me asap, and also if the light hurts your eyes."

Des felt the doctor's firm hands unwrapping the bandage around his eyes. As the layers grew less, the darkness started to get lighter. He blinked. Then the bandage was gone.

The light hit him – bright, white, dazzling him. The long period of darkness that had preceded it meant that his eyes took a few seconds to adjust and he squinted to block the light out. When he thought that he could look again, he opened his eyes. A blurry, blobby person in a white coat was peering into his face, startling him.

"It's ok, Des, it's only me," Doctor Harrow said. "Can you see any detail? Can you see my face?"

Des tried to focus on her, but he couldn't make out any distinguishing features except light and dark shading blurring together on her face. It was like looking into a fishbowl full of water – everything was badly distorted and bent.

"No...I can't..." he said dejectedly.

"Don't worry, this is normal – you've had a corneal graft in both eyes. We matched the donor corneas as best we can but it's not an exact fit, so your brain needs to adjust your eye muscle movements to cope with the changed light refraction. I'd only be worried if your cornea was starting to cloud, which it isn't, and if the light was hurting your eyes, which it doesn't appear to be. After the lunch trolley's been round I'll be in to see another patient, so I'll check your eyes again when I've seen her. There's still a chance you might reject the corneas later on today, hence the second check, but if they don't reject today then it'll be fine. If you suddenly don't like looking at light or it seems like someone's put a lace curtain over your eyes, call one of the duty nurses and they'll page me. And watch out for any floaters – shadows, dark blobs hovering when you look at things – and any flashes of light."

"What exactly have I been operated on for?"

The doctor paused.

"Well, when you came in, you were a real mess. You had severe blood loss, a long sliver of glass lodged in your right eye – miraculously you haven't damaged the retina, but there's a chance of it detaching now you've had the vitrectomy, hence the floater watch – and you had badly lacerated corneas. We couldn't save them, so we cut them out and grafted a new set onto your eyes."

The events of the previous day hit Des with a jolt. He remembered it now...the kid about to throw the brick; pulling Sam out of the way, and the glass slamming into his face...

"The glass..." he said hesitantly. "God, the glass - the window broke. The glass hit me in the face...the pain was unbelievable...but Sam...I jerked him out the way..."

"So your sergeant told me on the phone," said Doctor Harrow. "Your colleague – Sam – was very lucky not to end up with serious brain haemorrhage."

Des stopped and thought about this for a moment. Would Sam have been killed if Des hadn't thrown him out of the way? The answer was difficult to find, and he was still too fatigued to focus on anything that required a large amount of thought.

"I s'pose..." he said. "The operation, did it last long?"

"Your blood transfusion didn't, nor did the keratoplasty – that's a very straightforward operation. Tying off the severed vessels in your face and stitching the cuts took about an hour, and your right eye had a prolapsed iris – that took about forty minutes of careful handling to fix. The vitreous haemorrhages were a bit trickier to deal with. We couldn't see if the retina had been damaged because of the blood. The back of your eye consists of the vitreous humour, which is a jelly-like liquid that keeps your eye the right shape, the retina, which is the light sensitive bit that is responsible for sight, and the choroid, which is full of blood vessels. What happened was that the sliver of glass went into your sclera – that's the white bit of your eye – through the vitreous humour, and broke a few blood-vessels in the choroid at the side. The blood went into the vitreous humour, and we couldn't see if the glass had damaged the retina or not, so after we extracted the glass we drained the vitreous humour out of both your eyes, as your other eye had haemorrhaged as well. We've replaced it with clear liquid, and your eyesight won't be affected by that at all. In all you were in theatre for about three hours. If your corneas reject, I'm afraid we'll have to re-operate and put a new set on."

"Will I still be able to see if that happens?"

"Yes, though there's a higher risk that you may reject the second set. Also if we have to operate again there may be an increased chance of detachment, but hopefully that won't happen. You're hi-risk enough as it is. The crucial thing is that you let me know as soon as possible if you see floaters or flashes."

"Ok..."

"I think that's everything you need to be told. Do you understand all of that?"

He didn't, but the last thing he wanted was to appear stupid in front of the doctor. However, there was still one last, important question that he wanted to ask.

"Will I get all my sight back?"

Doctor Harrow paused, thinking. Des waited hopefully for an answer.

"If nothing goes wrong, there's no reason why you shouldn't regain full twenty/twenty vision. You're a police officer, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Des replied, immeasurably relieved by the doctor's response to his question.

"You'll be able to go back on full duties after about six weeks. Your cornea sutures can come out in about three or four. Try and avoid too many sudden movements. You had no retinal detachment during the operation, so we didn't put in a gas bubble, but there's the possibility of it happening later, so you must follow those instructions. You don't want to end up having to lie face down for three weeks, do you?"

"No."

"I don't blame you. Your facial stitches can come out in about three weeks. You'll have scars, unfortunately. There's betadine painted on them, so I'm afraid you're not a pretty sight. I'm going to put some antibiotic eye drops in your eyes, now. It might sting a bit."

Des was immediately wary.

"A bit?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, it will sting. It's better than you getting an infection – if that happens you may lose part or all of your sight."

Des gave in. It stung – a lot. However, a few minutes later the doctor wished him a good morning and left, leaving the cubicle curtains open as Des had asked her to. Des studied what he could see of the ward. It was quite airy and large...well, it seemed large, but he wasn't really that sure of distances. He could see a few empty, blurry beds on the opposite side of the room, with their blankets neatly piled up on the end. A square shaft of light was splashed across his bed, and when he looked as far to the right as he could without moving his head, he could just glimpse the sill of the window across the empty bed next to his. There was a small terracotta pot of chrysanthemums on the sill – they were either yellow or white, but they were too far away for him to be able to identify which.

He wondered what the time was. He instinctively brought his arm up to look at his watch, but it was absent from his blurred wrist, now covered by a bandage and the drip needle entering his arm. He assumed the watch must be in the bedside drawer, but he realised that there was no point in getting it out because he wouldn't be able to focus on the numbers. He wished that he had something to do, but what could he do? He couldn't read, couldn't watch the television because there wasn't one in the ward...was he even allowed out of bed? The doctor hadn't said, though he supposed that it would come under the category of 'sudden movements'. He hadn't really thought to ask, and he didn't want to jeopardise his recovery by going for a walk. He hated being bored but there wasn't a lot he could do about it except occupy his mind with thinking, as he did on obbos. Someone was bound to come past and talk to him eventually. He was half hoping that Antonia – Toni – would return. She had been nice enough, and he also wanted to know what she looked like. He suddenly realised that his previous feelings of nausea had disappeared, and he smiled to himself. It was one thing to look on the bright side about. He allowed his mind to wander, and his eyes gradually closed without him even realising it...

Des became aware that someone was close by, watching him. He opened his eyes. Everything was still blurry, and his eyes ached. He couldn't see anyone in his line of sight, but someone was definitely there.

"Whosat?" he queried.

"June. I'm sitting by your bed."

"Oh...hello, sarge. I can't look at you, I'm s'pose to keep still if I can. I can't really see you anyway."

"You're the patient, Des, you know what's best. There isn't a lot for you to look at, at the moment. Sam, Cass, Reg and Polly are on their way, they'll be up here in about ten minutes, so you're bound to have a few flowers to brighten things up. How are you?"

Des wasn't fond of flowers, but his limited field of vision was so dull and featureless that he was somewhat glad that there'd soon be colour, however blurry, to brighten it up.

"Alright...sore," he replied.

"I'm not surprised, considering you've just had glass extracted from your eyes and face."

"And a dozen other things done to me. I probably look like Frankenstein's monster."

"It isn't that bad."

"Tell the truth, sarge. How bad do I look?"

"Honesty, white-lies or bare-faced lies?"

"First one."

"If you're sure – it's not nice. Ok, you've been painted with antiseptic all over your face, so I'm afraid you look like you've had an accident with a triple-decker Marmite sandwich."

"Ten outta ten for tact, sarge," Des said dryly.

"I'm being honest. You've got stitches on your forehead in a couple of places, but they aren't too bad. Lots of small cuts, a few big ones on your left cheek with stitching, one across your nose – that's been stitched, and a large one on your right that has quite a lot of stitches. Good enough picture?"

"Bad enough y'mean."

"Well, it depends how you look at it. It could've been worse, Des. No doubt the surgeon's explained what you've had done. You could've been permanently blinded."

"And Sam could've been killed."

"I know. He's very grateful for what you did. He wanted to see you first, but I jumped the queue to see if you were okay to be visited."

"Fit to be visited?"

"Well, I didn't know how much you'd been told."

"What?"

"Well, last night a doctor rang the station and told me everything that they were operating on you for. She used lots of hospital jargon, but I've a friend who's an ophthalmologist and she explained it all to me. You know what operations you've had?"

"Yeah, and that I might have to have the grafts redone if they go wrong. And I have to look out for floaters."

"You do know everything then."

"Why wouldn't I?'

"Never mind. Sam and the others will all be in any minute, so I'll get out of the cubicle to give them some room."

"Y'c'n stay if ya want, sarge," Des said, then looked at the curtains.

Someone had obviously shut them while he was asleep, but with them open he knew there'd be plenty of room for everyone around his bed.

"Open the curtains, then everyone c'n stay."

"Oh, alright then."

Des heard June get up from her chair, and he saw her distorted shape walk past him and open the curtains.

"There's only supposed to be two people visiting at a time, but Polly knows the duty nurse on this ward and she talked her into letting us all in," June said, smiling as she remembered the triumphant looks on the others' faces at getting around the hospital rules. "If it'd been a general ward it would've been a different story, but so long as we don't make too much noise we're all allowed to visit. Dave and Tony will be around next time."

Des didn't really feel like being visited at that particular moment – he half-wanted to go back to sleep and let the cool darkness ease his sore eyes, but he knew that the presence of his mates from the nick would cheer him up so he did not protest.

"That's great," he replied, smiling carefully so as not to pull his stitches.

"They've just entered the ward, Des," June told him, then called out to the others. "Over here, you lot!"

Des greeted Sam, Polly, Reg and Cass as they clustered around his bed. He couldn't see their individual features, but he was able to distinguish between them by heights and hair colour, as well as accent. Polly and Cass tutted over his stitches.

"Aw, Des, you look like you've been in a massacre!" Polly said sympathetically. "June said your vision would be affected by the transplant. Can you see me?"

"Yeah, but you look like the female version of Mr. Blobby," Des told her, grinning.

"Thanks a bunch!"

"Yeah, we all know you watch it in secret, Des!" Reg teased, putting his bag of grapes on Des' bedside table.

"Just like you watch the Teletubbies, Reg," Des retorted.

They'd only been talking to him for a minute or so and already he felt a lot more cheerful. He laughed and joked with them as they filled him in on the snippets of gossip he missed, then they arranged their presents on his bedside table.

"I've got you some chocolates to make up for the hospital food!" Cass laughed.

"It's not that bad, actually," Des replied. "Then again, I haven't had lunch yet..."

"I bet you've been eyeing up the nurses," Polly said jokingly, placing her Get-Well card with the others. "Found any you like?"

"I wouldn't know! I've only seen one nurse, or rather heard her – I had a bandage over my eyes when the breakfast trolley came round, but she's a Scouser as well. Does good impressions. Oh, yeah, and I've met the doctor, but I can't see faces, only outlines."

"Just as well, or you'd be after them like a shot!" June said.

"Sarge!" he protested.

"Des!" June shot back, laughing.

The others laughed. Sam was glad that Des wasn't depressed by what had happened. He was sure that he'd never have forgiven himself if Des were unable to return to work. That Des was in a cheerful mood and seemed okay lifted his spirits considerably, and he, along with Reg, felt more able to join in with the light-hearted conversation and verbal sparring taking place. However, he still felt that he owed to Des to find the person who had put the brick through the canteen window, especially as Des was unable to investigate it himself.

"Des, did you see who put the brick through the window?" he questioned during a break in the conversation.

"Yeah," Des replied after a moment's thought. "D'you want a description?"

Though the others had not yet noticed it, June could tell that Des was in some discomfort. Though he had been cheerful of his own accord when his colleagues had first arrived, his smile and laughter seemed slightly more exaggerated, and he blinked a lot more than was normal.

"Sam, I think – " she started, but Des held up his hand.

"It's fine, sarge," he said. "I should give him a description now while it's all clear in my head – I want them caught, stupid blerts. Got a pen and paper, Sam?"

Sam produced them. He noticed that Des was blinking a lot, and there appeared to be moisture in his eyes. The others noticed this as well, but they did not comment on it for fear of embarrassing Des – if he wished to cry, then they would not judge him for it. After all, he had been through a serious operation and it was very improbable that he wouldn't experience some trauma as a result.

Des had discovered that the soreness in his eyes eased slightly whenever he blinked – he was doing this as much as possible so he could concentrate on giving Sam the description needed, and was hoping that nobody would notice. His face ached from smiling in his attempts to keep his pain from showing.

"I'm not s'posed to talk a lot," he said, "but it doesn't hurt that much, s'long as you lot don't make me laugh anymore! Right, the prat who threw the brick was IC1, about five two, fifteen years old or thereabouts...wearing jeans, or some sort of denim thing – it was black, and he had a red t-shirt. Couldn't see his face, he had a blue cap on. Didn't get a good view of the second kid, but she was definitely female – IC1, had blonde hair, green or turquoise jumper, didn't see her bottom half – she was closer than the other kid."

Sam scribbled down the details. While he was doing this, Des tried to get rid of the tears that were blurring his vision even more – he didn't know where they had come from, and though they somewhat soothed the horrible pain in his eyes that he was trying to ignore, he didn't want the others to think that he was crying. He couldn't rub them out of his eyes, so he tried to blink them away. However, this just seemed to produce more of them.

"That's brilliant. Cheers, Des. So when are you getting out of here, then?"

"Yeah!" Cass said. "We miss ya already!"

"Miss his big mouth, more like," Polly chuckled uneasily.

She had noticed that Des' now constant blinking had slowed down – now he closed his eyes shut, kept them shut for a second and then slowly opened them again, only to repeat the same action a second or so later. He was still trying to pretend that nothing was amiss, but by now they had all realised that this wasn't the case. The moisture in his eyes had formed proper tears and they were starting to spill over his bottom eyelid and run down his face. The conversation had died out – they weren't sure what to say, whether to ignore the tears or say something about them. Embarrassed by this, Des tried to reassure them.

"I'm not crying," he told them quickly. "I'm not - I'm ok – my eyes are just a bit sore, that's all. I'm getting out this evening. I'll be off-duty for six weeks tho..."

Des broke off, and remained silent. They could see he was struggling not to close his eyes. Sam saw his eyes narrow, then start moving, looking at different things around the small space he was in. The others watched him in bafflement.

"Des, are you sure you're okay?" Cass asked him.

Des did not reply. His eyes abruptly shut and the colour drained from his face, leaving him very pale under the stitches and antiseptic. This time his eyes did not open.

"Oh, God..." he moaned. "The light...it hurts...it hurts too much...but I saw it..."

Upon saying that, he realised what was causing the pain – why he kept trying to shut his eyes and why he was crying. It was the light. And upon making that connection, it suddenly occurred to him what could have gone wrong. With the white milky curtain that seemed to be encroaching on his vision, he was now pretty certain what had happened.

He'd rejected the cornea transplant.

_To be continued..._


End file.
